


Fear Borne

by 1JettaPug



Category: Guardians of Childhood - William Joyce, Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: Adoption, Angst, Death, Dreams and Nightmares, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, Eventual Relationships, Fae & Fairies, Fear, Fearlings (Guardians of Childhood), Fluff, Historical References, Magic, Male Slash, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Nightmares
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-08
Updated: 2018-09-08
Packaged: 2019-07-07 09:59:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15906009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1JettaPug/pseuds/1JettaPug
Summary: “A child,” his eyes lit up faintly, and he held out his hand to receive the infant. So, this was the source of the clear, genuine fear that rung out so loudly through all the death and despair? Coming from one so young and alive, he could believe it since the last of the fear in the air was the scraps escaping their corpse cages.





	Fear Borne

**Author's Note:**

> I may not know how to make a Summary, but... _*shrugs*_ Yeah. I know how to do everything else with my writing, though.
> 
> Enjoy~

The wind blew cold off the sword-grey sea, and over the imposing figure the crying seagulls wheeled, and at the edges of his robe on the black sand lay a dying army of a thousand men. Cries of several soldiers rose to the heights of the gull’s screeches as they waited for death to overtake them. And from behind the writhing masses and strolling along the tide line, the dark figure watched silently.

An eclipse of silver-golden yellow eyes tossed their gaze further down on the water’s edge, catching sight of some civilians who had been caught attempting to flee their burned village. Slaughtered by the sword or caught by the distant archer’s arrow, they had all fallen loudly, quickly.

The King of Nightmares did not even blink at the devastation lying before his feet. It was nothing new to him. Humans fighting, pillaging, murdering, it was such a boring endless cycle after countless centuries watching it occur time and time again.

Only a few select things could bring him out to these locations during and after the destruction. The fear from such a fierce fight tended to linger in the air for hours even after all the souls had vanished from their weak human bodies. With a mere gesture, he was able to bend and bring all the fear from the surrounding area to his person.

The other reason he had risen from the shadows of this island was to get a good idea of where to send his next platoon of Fearlings. Children, young adults, even fully-grown adults would completely submit to his power and manipulation quite easily in these dangerous times. Another simple gesture with his other hand sent half the shadows writhing and twisting behind his shadowy robe out towards the open sea. They would go on to the next dozen islands, frightening the populations and building their fear higher and higher until they were about to choke on it. 

The thought almost turned the corners of the dark king’s mouth back into a smirk. Almost because a cry much sharper than that of the gulls and the dying soldiers caught his ears, acutely.

His gaze narrowed, causing the ancient silver-golden colors of his eyes twist in interest and slight curiosity. He sensed fear- but this was a fear much simpler, yet true in its form than compared to the pain and death around him. This was a fear that could only emerge from a living being, a small living being.

In only a few strides with his long legs, he was able to come upon two figures brushing up against the waves of the cold sea. His Fearlings stepped to their master’s side and rose to see over his shoulders as he stood before a dying mother and the bundle wrapped within her arms. They felt the fear slowly rising from the woman, though she barely counted as alive enough to emit any kind of fear still, but they knew the fear their king had sensed in such a pure form must have come from the thing buried in her hold. One Fearling dared to drift closer past its king, only to be undone and unmade by simply its king’s will. The Nightmare King slowly motioned for his minions to depart from him for the time being, and they did so, quickly and not wanting to be undone like their former companion.

With the curious shadows and beings of fear no longer looking over his shoulders, the dark king cast his gaze to the bloodied woman who had- rather surprisingly- caught sight of the being towering far above her. He read her face like an open book, studying an expression he so rarely got to enjoy since his coming to Earth. He must have appeared like a God of death to her weak, dying mind.

The woman struggled to comprehend the shadowy sight before her, barely being able to really see the frightening figure above her. She opened her mouth, whispering something to him in a human language foreign to him. Using the last of her strength, she lifted the bundle towards him, seemingly silently pleading to him to have mercy.

“A child,” his eyes lit up faintly, and he held out his hand to receive the infant. So, this was the source of the clear, genuine fear that rung out so loudly through all the death and despair? Coming from one so young and alive, he could believe it since the last of the fear in the air was the scraps escaping their corpse cages.

The young child fit in the center of his palm perfectly. It appeared so small and weak when it rested against the ancient greyed skin of the King of Nightmares. The shadows from the cuff of his sleeve twisted and curled over towards the child, reaching out and forcing it to be silent for the time. Though he enjoyed the screams of children and the fear that seemed to radiate from them when they were basking in his presence, he could only derive so much enjoyment from the instinctual scream of an infant. It wasn’t quite as filling and pleasant as a physiological fear or nightmare for him.

One last glance was paid to the babe’s mother, and unsurprisingly, the dark king found her slumped over in the chilling waves. His eyes shifted down towards the child in his grasp who was moaning softly and shivered beneath the covering of the shadows. Something deep within his chest ached for a moment, something long forgotten from a time whose history could only be remembered by a remaining few. His mind could no longer recall where that brief feeling could have originated from. Then suddenly, he found that the little body in his hand felt more solid and heavier than before.

And yet, even though a part of him struggled to find the memories of a time long forgotten, an old plan began to resurrect itself in the back of his mind. 

Taking a child so young and weak like this was an act of madness. The darkness and fear that surrounded him would quickly drive the infant to an early grave by means of corruption. No, no, no. He did not wish those events to play out for this little one.

Though the child stood little chance with him at this point in its life, it would surely stand a chance if he were to place it with humans who would provide it an opportunity.

Yes, yes. He could see it now. He turned his head slightly and smiled down at the young babe. “You are going to be of use to me in the future, child.” He whispered, icily, carefully stroking the baby’s side through its torn green blanket. “How indebted you must feel towards the King of Nightmares…”

Now, what to do with the child? It couldn’t survive being out in the middle of nowhere in cold condition such as these. He already guessed the child was close to the limits of its fragile form.

He thought back to the village nearby, but he knew the none remained there after the pillaging began and the armies clashed. He would have to travel to another island, one much farther away from these islands on which several battles were taking place.

Soon he began backtracking towards the mainland, drifting across the water on a cloud of dark sand to place the child in another home. It wouldn’t take long to find a town once he reached mainland, and then he would take the baby to the nearest homestead and leave it to the mercy of the people within.

Over the open ocean, the wind rose and whipped the dark king; the sky clouded and began to weep long lashes of rain.

When at last he reached land, he happened a fisherman’s home along the coast. He peeked in through the windows to find he and his wife sitting down to a meal. A bare crib laid in the corner of the cottage, covered with a thin layer of dust. Ah, a woman who could not have children of her own, she would be grateful for this small mercy. With that, the dark king deemed them suitable to care for the child.

Carefully, he laid the tiny babe on the doorstep of their home and slunk to the shadows beside the door. He pulled an obsidian dagger from nothingness and held the child’s left hand up.

“With this mark,” he made a scarring slash across the child’s palm. “You will be forever be mine.” Silvery-golden eyes stared down at the now crying babe below him. “You may cry now, but do not forget that you are indebted to me, child. Do not forget me… Do not forget the name Pitch Black…”

He withdrew his hand with the bloodied dagger and vanished into the shadows beneath him. As his form melded with the darkness, he found himself hearing the sharp crying of the young child who would soon become a prince or princess of his own creation.

**⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂**

“Once upon a time,” a fisherwoman told her daughter, “there was a poor common woman who was very unhappy.”

“That was you, Mummy!” a young girl bounced in her bed until the straw rustled, for she had heard this tale many times in her four years, the true amazing tale of herself, and she loved it. Her Mummy had told it to her almost every day since she could remember.

Her round face would crinkle with a smile as she went on, pretending she hadn’t spoken. “A poor fisherman’s wife. She was unhappy because her baby had died, and she had waited so long, and then to lay the poor little thing in the ground… well, it was too hard on her. The milk stung in her breasts and the tears stung in her eyes and she could not think much of anything. She sat by the cold hearth and cried day and night. But then- what do you think happened?”

“The fisherman found me on his doorstep!” she giggled, loudly.

“Shhhh. Softly, Aisling. Yes, it was… uncanny to say the least.” Her smile turned rapt, and in back of her words the girl grew aware of the vast sea sighing and stirring and muttering like a great sleeper outside their window. “Like a miracle. The good fisherman walked outside and spotted a wee baby girl, cold and hungry but still alive.”

“That was me!”

“Yes, little one, that was you.” Now there was that bright glimmer in her smiling eyes. “The good fisherman picked you up and carried you against his chest, under his tunic to warm you, and he hurried you to me-”

From his place by the fire, her fisherfather chuckled deeply, “After I tripped twenty times attempting to carry you to your mother, she should say.”

“Hush, you, you did a fine job.” Her mother spoke gently because she knew he was simply joking. He was a dark, rough-looking man, as crusty as the salt on his nets, but he loved his wife as much, if not more than, the sea. “He hurried to me where I sat after finishing dinner, and he gave you to me. I held you in my arms, poor wee babe, so weak and cold that you could barely cry, yet when I offered you my breast you suckled strongly. Like a miracle.”

“But what of my black scar, mummy?” the little girl poked her left palm for emphasis. “How’d I get it, how’d I get it?”

Her Mummy shook her head. “We haven’t a clue, child. There was nothing out there for you to cut your little hand on. We cleaned it up and bandaged it, but it healed in such an unnatural black scar. I like to think it may have been a parting gift from the spirit that brought you to us. A spirit bringing you to us might explain why your hair holds no color but the purest white. Such a pure color that could only come from the Realm of the Fae.”

“Spirits? Bah, nothing like that.” Her father said.

“Then how would you go about explaining her appearance if we haven’t neighbors or a village for miles of here?”

“…”

“I’m telling you, Old Ler had heard me crying.” Ler was the god of the sea, who allowed men to rest their boats on his wide slumbering chest and shook their home with his powerful storms. Aisling had heard plenty of tales about him, and she was quite familiar with him and many other spirits thanks to her Mummy. “Old Ler had grown weary of hearing me cry and sent you to dry my tears, child.”

Aisling laid quieted by the wonder of the story.

“Now go to sleep, Aisling.” Her fishermother patted her. She named her Aisling because she had come to her as if from a dream, thinking her to be a true miracle child from the sea. “And dream that the mark on your palm may be a parting gift from Old Ler himself. She kissed her palm and then kissed her cheek. “Sleep in peace.”

But she did not. Even with the murmuring of the sea as her lullaby, and her belly filled from the last meal of the day, she never once had a dream. She either fell into a grey or black void when she slumbered or was overcome by… by the nightmares. 

Unbeknownst to her, Fearlings and shadows lingered about the fisherman’s land and home. Their mere presence preventing any dreamsand from coming near the child.

But whenever the witching hour of the night rose, and the child shot up from her bed like a bat out of hell, she would quickly catch herself and calm her rapid breaths. Her home was warm, and the sea breathed marvels in her ear, and when she fell back to sleep, she could fall into an endless void that would at least grant her restful respite.

Screams from a time long forgotten by her echoed on in the back of her mind, screaming to remind her of a time where she was given up by a dying mother. But it was beyond her understanding and memory, no matter how hard it bellowed in the depths of her mind.

Aisling only knew herself to be what her fishermother said she was. She was a gift from Ler. The sea was her father and her mother. And in the morning, there would be warm white chowder to eat, and all day she would leap on the rocks and wade the shallows and chase the birds who landed on the grey beach shores, and the sea was vast and the sky vast all around her. She stood a god’s gift over the sea amidst the sky, and the forest was only a low green mystery in the distance from where she was. And at night, there would be kippered herring for supper and the warmth of her Mummy’s arms and her story at bedtime, and she was happy.

Then on an early autumn’s morn, before the sun could poke its head out from the fog, she saw something in the distance of the forest walls. Aisling saw it shifting in and out of the outline of the trunks of the trees while she was gathering bird’s eggs on the rocks. As she took a step towards the slithering shadow, it turned, and two piercing eyes seemed to stab right through her person. Speckled eggs dropped from her hands and cracked open at her feet. She gasped, for she had never seen such eyes from any sort of beast, though she had heard tales of spirits and fair folk in the stories her Mummy told her. But to really see- it was beyond believing. A spirit, a real spirit, was watching her from a distance.

Aisling hadn’t a clue what to do. So, she did what came first to her mind.

She raised her left hand and gave it a little wave.

The pair of silver-golden eyes blinked once, then shut and vanished into the shadows of the surrounding trees.

Surprised but not any more frightened, Aisling left her basket and ran to tell her Mummy about the spirit she had seen. In a moment, she stood before the home, so breathless, not from running but from wonder, that she could barely speak. Her Mummy stood at the door, sweeping out dust but stopping to find her child running up to her.

“Mummy, Mummy!” Aisling gasped, excitedly. “I saw one! I saw a spirit in the forest!”

As the young child went on to babble on about her encounter with the ‘spirit’, the King of Nightmares had returned to the comforting blackness of his lair. When he stepped down from a staircase that led to nowhere, his robes gracefully flowed down against his lithe form, completely covering his lower half. He seemed to glide across his domain with only the level of elegance and determination a being at his level naturally achieved.

The shadows seemed to curl into the crevices of the walls as he passed them by, watching where he went by not daring to follow after him. The shape of the darkened cavern appeared to have changed once more, but it quickly bent to the will of its master, allowing him to pass through wall after wall to reach his destination. Thick wooden doors creaked open as he approached his personal library. With the wave of his hand, a shadow lifted up a book that the Nightmare King had been writing in for the past few years.

His little daytrip had mainly been to check up on that mysterious plague that was sweeping through Europe. He hadn’t had a direct hand in creating it, but he could be blamed for its massive outbreak, scaring the weak humans and making them panic instead of listening to their physicians. Nightmares heavily plagued its victims, forcing them to foresee their own doom, getting a terrible sense of foreboding and dread before they even felt ill. Pitch had felt this disease would have the power to change the course of history, even if he, himself, hadn’t a clue as to what sparked the illness back in the 1400s.

The disease had been around for over a hundred and twenty years, and people were terrified of it. The afflicted were not expected to survive. It wasn't just the deadliness of the illness or the victims' 24-hour expiration date that drove men mad and fueled the sick fascination that the King of Nightmares had with it. It was the fact that, before the disease came on, its victims felt an unreasoning sense of dread and terror due to his influence. It attacked their emotions first, and so they foresaw their own probable death.

After writing down a few observations that he had noticed in the victims, he snapped the book shut and let the shadow place it back on its shelf.

Gracefully, he sat at his deck and rested his head on his hand. Eyes of an eclipse ran along the walls of the room, scanning the scrolls, books and illustrations of some of his finest moments of recorded human history. For all he had done and all the hearts and minds he had influenced over the centuries, he could not deny that he was starting to feel his power wane. 

Reports had been starting to pour in from his Fearlings. Apparently, they had been overhearing some rumors about North planning to bring back Christmas and its traditions in full before half of this century was up. He had been declining majorly in European countries ever since the Catholic Church had banned gift giving at Christmas due to its suspected pagan origins. The rumors showed little truth to them so far this century, but he should keep an eye out this coming Christmas. He couldn’t risk the gamble of North making a huge, bombastic comeback; he would prove himself to be a powerful advisory if he was given enough believers.

Bunnymund had been keeping out of his way, or he had at least kept out of his line of sight. He suspected the Pooka of preparing for a battle with him. The same went for the Tooth Fairy; he had not heard a tiny peep out of her fairies. She was gaining believers by the day, but he saw no threat from her and her pathetic minions. As long as she didn’t attempt to advance her forces against his, then he wouldn’t risk wasting his soldiers on her. 

Then there was the mythic bringer of dreams, the first ever Guardian, the Guardian of Dreams. The Sandman, Pitch thought, shutting his eyes for a moment and perfectly envisioning short-rounded individual, garbed in his outfit made of his Dreamsand appearing as a night robe. His hair perfectly golden and short, styled into five points, and glittered like his Dreamsand. His golden-brown eyes caught his own, and Pitch found himself forcing his eyes open before he found himself getting… distracted.

Still, it had been a few nights since he last sent his spies to watch over the Sandman. It might be important to check on him to make sure he wasn’t planning anything against him besides his normal dreams. It also occurred to him that Sandman and his Dreamsand were beginning to become very crucial to the rest of the Guardians, as the pleasant dreams that Sandman provided for children helped them to have faith in the other Guardians. He was able to connect to any and every child every night because he sent out his Dreamsand to bring pleasant dreams to all.

It was getting more and more troublesome with each passing night. Pitch hadn’t a plan to counteract it just yet, seeing how Sandman was the most powerful Guardian. He could not yet corrupt the very core of his Dreamsand. Instead, he was forced to send his shadows out before Sandman’s golden dreams. It was starting to drain his powers little by little when he was forced to do this every night.

He had to stay ahead in the game. In a thousand years, he would see to it personally, that it would be his name that would remembered and believed in. Even though he enjoyed his rivalry with the Guardians, he couldn’t have them gaining the upper hand and beating him back into the shadows. In the end, it would be him who would be the victor. He would stand strong as he always had, and everything would take its rightful place in the world.

A pleased, deep chuckle rumbled in his chest. It echoed throughout the cave system, the only other sound being drips of water and the small screeches of the Fearlings in the shadows. It was black. Pitch Black. 

And soon, the King of Nightmares thought, the whole world would be, too.

**⁂⁂⁂**

Night after night passed by, until entire weeks, then months rolled by. About two years had gone by in a flash.

Aisling gazed out of the thick paned window of the kitchen. She rested her head against the glass, finding herself once more thinking about the spirit she had seen so many seasons ago. For her, the past month had had more than its fill of horrible, vivid dreams. They had been growing more treacherous, more detailed than she ever thought her lucid dreams could be. Silver-golden eyes watched over her as she fell from cliffs, ran from spiders, was crushed under an enormous boulder and drowned in the ocean.

She titled her head. Had the being in her nightmares had the same pair of eyes as the spirit? Yes. Yes… But her curiosity drove her to ask why, why had it chosen to show itself after almost two years?

A yawn broke her train of thought and forced her to stretch out her small limbs. Tiredly, she rubbed at her eyes and watched the rain as it fell against the glass. It was raining outside as it did most days this time of the year. A cold, damp and dreary rain. The land surrounding her home was being plagued, losing all life and vitality, the plants and animals slowly dying. It was midday, but the flash and thundering concussion of magery made the air seem dark and heavy. It was dark and gloomy in their little home, with Aisling’s stacks of story books surrounding her person.

She turned her head to face, asking, “Mummy… is father going to be safe out there?”

“He’ll be safe, child. He’s done this a thousand times before, and he’ll do it a thousand times more.” Her fishermother told her. She stirred the cabbage soup in its cauldron above the fire, paying a small glance to the outside the window to the open sea. “I hope…” she whispered, softly.

“Mummy…?”

Slowly, she shook her head, then set down her spoon. She motioned for Aisling to come over to her once she sat down in a nearby chair. Aisling scampered over to her and was lifted onto her knee, so she could brush the knots out of her bright white hair.

She watched her adopted daughter flip through the pages of one of her books as she worked. “What did you dream about last night, little one?” she asked as she attacked one vicious knot at the end of her hair.

Aisling hummed. “I dreamt I fell into the sea and nearly drowned.”

“Drowned?” Her fishermother frowned. “That doesn’t sound like a good dream-”

Her daughter shook her head and turned towards her, causing her to stop what she was doing and instead face her. “It was a nightmare,” she murmured. “But it wasn’t all scary.”

“Not all scary?”

“No,” she said matter-of-factly. She gave a little smile to herself when she turned back around. Her fishermother threaded the brush through her hair one more time. “An old… An old friend was there.”

“Who was that, little one?”

“I- I don’t know,” Aisling spoke softly, as she tried to remember her horrid nightmare from last night. “It was a tall giant! It was bigger than the whales in the water with grayish skin. “It was a patch of living shadow… Do you think it was the spirit I saw some time ago?” 

“Perhaps the spirit has chosen to watch over you, chosen to protect you, child.” And hopefully not curse you, she almost said. She doubted Aisling would be cursed, seeing how she had been brought to her and her husband when she was but a babe. Still, her daughter’s tales of the spirit were slowly beginning to trouble her.

“Do you think… it is my guardian?” Aisling murmured.

Her fishermother smiled and kissed the top of her head. “Let us hope so, darling. Maybe it’ll chase away those dark nightmares of yours.” She took her hand through her hair and she leaned away to see how her soft, white hair perfectly fell around her child’s face. Her smile spread brightly. “There we go. Now, how about an early story?”

Aisling grinned, happily, and gasped, “An early story? Which one, which one?”

“The tales of Dagda,” her fishermother told her. Outside the window, lightning struck, and thunder boomed as she began her story. Aisling shrunk against her mother as the dark clouds continued to roll and beat against the shores of their home. She curled up on her lap and shut her eyes, trying not to succumb to her fears and listen to the story.

“Old tales say Dagda, one of the Tuatha Dé Danann, a figure of immense power is said to own a magic staff, club or mace which could kill nine men with one blow; but with the handle he could return the slain to life…”


End file.
